CHAPTER 1

The Market of Vimaya

The field south of the Victory Gate buzzed. Market day had turned to festival, pushing the usual stalls of grain and dried fish to the perimeter to make room for the itinerant troupe from Yasodharapura. In the centre, a wooden stage groaned under local artisans finishing the last of the decorations.

A tense silence fell over the crowd as the three traditional strikes of a gong higher than a grown man sounded on the side of the stage. A painted backdrop of a pastoral landscape slowly unfolded. Four lamps hung above the stage, their light flickering as the musicians began a soft air. Serey stepped onto the stage, immense and draped in an elaborate shepherd’s costume. He carried a set of pipes adorned with ribbons, and after a stiff bow, he began his lines in a booming, theatrical voice.

“Happy is he who, far from courts, in a solitary place, prescribes for himself a voluntary exile, and who, when the breeze has blown through the woods…”

“Scoundrel!” a voice boomed from the centre of the crowd. “Did I not forbid you for a month?”

The audience went still. Every head turned toward the source of the interruption.

“What? Who is it?”

“It’s her!” Sak cried.

“Moo Hring!” Kla gasped, his face pale with terror.

Serey, still on stage, looked toward the nobles in their boxes. “My Lords, help me!”

“Go on and play!” Wut called with a lazy wave.

Moo Hring, standing on a bamboo [Krae](#) in the middle of the market grounds, looked up at the stage. Her head cocked at a defiant angle, she rested a hand on the hilt of the large kitchen knife at her belt. “Listen, scoundrel!” she called, her voice ringing out. “If you play, I shall slap your cheeks until they match your costume!”

“Enough!” a noble shouted.

“Let the nobles keep their seats and their silence,” Moo Hring retorted, “or I shall let them taste my cane across their fine ribbons!”

“This is too much!” someone cried. “Serey, play on!”

“Let Serey leave this stage,” Moo Hring commanded, “or I shall trim his ears and gut him like a market fish!”

“But—” a voice started.

“Not gone yet?” Moo Hring slapped her upper arms. “Good! I shall go up there myself and carve this fat catfish!”

Serey tried to summon a bit of dignity. “In insulting me, Khun, you insult the Ghost of Tragedy!”

Moo Hring gave him a mock-polite bow. “If that Ghost had the honour of knowing you, she would certainly kick you from the stage with her own celestial foot!”

The crowd roared: “Serey! The play! The Dances! We want the dancers!”

“I beg of you,” Moo Hring said, addressing those around her, “have pity on my scabbard. If you continue, it will be forced to release its blade!” The crowd pulled back as her hand tightened on the handle of her heavy knife.

“Heh! Now…” they muttered, retreating.

“Leave the stage!” Moo Hring barked.

A voice from the back sang a mocking tune about the “tyrant Moo Hring,” and the crowd joined in, chanting for the play to continue.

“If I hear that song once more,” Moo Hring said, “I shall beat you all senseless. Who will be the first? You, Khun? No? You? I shall take your names. Approach, young heroes! Everyone in their turn! I am handing out numbers! Come now, who wants to open the list? A first duellist? I shall send them off with the honours they deserve! Let all those who wish to die raise a finger!”

Silence fell over the grounds. No one moved.

“Does modesty prevent you from seeing my steel naked?” Moo Hring asked with a smirk. “Not a name? Not a finger? Good. I shall continue.” She turned back to Serey, who was trembling on the stage. “I desire to see this stage cured of your presence. Otherwise…” Her hand moved to her knife. “…the surgery begins!”

“I…” Serey stammered.

Moo Hring sat down on her [Krae](#) and crossed her legs. “I shall clap my hands three times. You will have eclipsed yourself by the third.”

“One!” she called out, her hands coming together with a sharp report.

“I…”

“Stay!” a voice cried from the box.

“He stays… he stays not…” the crowd whispered.

“Two!”

“I believe… I am sure it would be better if…” Serey muttered, backing away.

“Three!”

Serey vanished through the stage side-drape as if by magic. A storm of laughter and boos erupted from the room. “Coward! Come back!”

Moo Hring, looking satisfied, leaned back on her [Krae](#). “Let him come back if he dares!”

Det, the leader of the troupe, stepped forward and bowed. “Noble lords…”

“No! No! We want Jom!” the crowd shouted.

Jom stepped forward, his voice a nasal whine. “You bunch of calves!”

“Ah! Ah! Bravo! Very good!”

“No bravos!” Jom snapped. “The fat tragedian you love has felt… unwell.”

“He’s a coward!”

“He had to leave!”

“Let him come back!”

“No!” “Yes!” The crowd was clearly of two minds. A young man leaned toward Moo Hring. “But in the end, Khun, what reason do you have to hate Serey?”

Moo Hring, still seated, gave him a gracious smile. “Young goose, I have two reasons, each of which is enough on its own. First, he is a deplorable announcer who bellows like a water-carrier and weighs down the verses that should fly! And the second… is my secret.”

An old merchant behind her grumbled. “But you deprive us of the play! I insist…”

Moo Hring twisted on her [Krae](#) toward him. “Old mule! The verses of Baro are worth less than zero. I interrupt without remorse!”

Refined guests in the boxes expressed their scandal. “Ah! Oh! Our Baro! My dear, can one say such things?”

Moo Hring turned toward the boxes, her tone turning gallant. “Beautiful people, radiate, bloom, be the dream-bearers of our world. Enchant us with a smile, inspire us with verses… but do not judge them!”

Det stepped to the edge of the stage. “And the money that we must return!”

“Det,” Moo Hring said, turning back to the stage, “you have said the only intelligent thing. I do not wish to leave a hole in the troupe’s purse.” She stood up and pulled a heavy bag of coins from her belt, tossing it onto the stage. “Catch this bag on the fly. And be silent!”

The crowd gasped as the bag landed with a heavy clink. “Ah! Oh!”

Jom scooped it up, weighing it in his hand. “At this price, Khun, I shall personally clear the stage of the tragedian and let the Apsara dancers begin the performance immediately!”

The audience roared with laughter as the actors and dancers slowly left. Kla moved to Moo Hring’s side. “This is madness…”

Wut, the meddler, watched Moo Hring with a judgmental eye. He approached. “The actor Serey… quite a scandal. The Governor protects him. Do you have a patron, Khun?”

“No,” Moo Hring replied.

“You don’t have…?”

“No.”

“What, not a great lord to cover your name?”

Moo Hring’s hand tightened on the hilt at her side. “No. I have said it twice. No protector… but this protectress!”

“But you will have to leave the city?”

“That depends.”

“The Governor has a long arm!”

“Not as long as mine,” Moo Hring said, patting her blade, “when I add this extension to it.”

“But you don’t think to claim—”

“I think of it.”

“But—”

“Turn your heels now,” Moo Hring commanded.

“But—”

“Turn! Or tell me why you are staring at my nose.”

The man looked confused. “I…”

“What is so surprising about it?” Moo Hring stepped toward him.

“Your Grace is mistaken…” he stammered, backing away.

“Is it soft and swinging, Khun, like an elephant’s trunk?”

“I didn’t…”

“Or hooked like the beak of an owl?”

“I—”

“Do you see a wart on the end of it? What is so strange about it? Is it a phenomenon?”

“I had kept my eyes from looking at it!” the man cried.

“And why, if you please, not look at it? Does it disgust you then? Does its colour seem unhealthy to you? Its shape, obscene?”

“No, not at all!”

“Why then take such a disparaging air? Perhaps you find it a bit too large?”

“I find it small,” the man stammered, “very small, tiny, minuscule!”

“What? How? You accuse me of such ridicule? Small, my nose? Stop!”

“Gods!”

“Enormous, my nose!” Moo Hring declared, her voice rising with poetic fervour. “Vile flat-nose, learn that I take pride in such an appendix. A prominent nose is the mark of an affable, good, courteous, and spiritual woman, liberal and courageous, such as I am. And such as you are forbidden to ever believe yourself to be, you miserable rogue! For the face without glory that my hand goes to find at the top of your neck is as devoid…” She reached out and slapped him. “…of pride, of flight, of lyricism, of spark, of nose, finally, as that which my foot goes to find at the base of your back!” She punctuated her words with a kick that sent the man scurrying away.

“Help! Guard!” he cried as he fled.

“A warning to the curious who find the centre of my face amusing,” Moo Hring announced to the room. “And if the prankster is noble, my custom is to give him a taste of steel before he runs!”

Luang Borommanantakkawongsapanawisut Borirak, who had descended from the stage with his entourage, shook his head. “This performance is an unauthorized expenditure of our time.”

The Nose

“No one?” Sorasakdidecha stepped forward, then pushed one of his servants to the front. “Wait. I shall throw one of those traits at her…” He positioned himself before Moo Hring. “You… you have a nose… a very… very large nose.”

Moo Hring looked at him gravely. “Very.”

“Ha!”

“Is that all?” Moo Hring asked.

“But…”

“No! That is a bit short, young man! One could say—many things. By varying the tone—for example:

Aggressive: ‘I, Khun, if I had such a nose, I would have it amputated on the spot!’ Friendly: ‘But it must dip into your cup! You should have a special bowl made for drinking!’ Descriptive: ‘It is a rock! It is a stupa! It is the pinnacle of the Palace of Vimaya! What am I saying, a pinnacle? It is one of the Dângrêk Mountains!’ Curious: ‘Towards what goal does this oblong capsule serve? As a writing desk, or a box for scissors?’ Gracious: ‘Do you love birds so much that you provided this perch for their little feet?’ Truculent: ‘When you smoke, does the tobacco steam come out without a neighbour crying fire in the hut?’ Considerate: ‘Take care, your head being pulled by such a weight, not to fall forward!’ Tender: ‘Have a small parasol made for it, for fear its colour fades in the sun!’ Pedantic: ‘The animal alone, that the scholars call the Celestial-Elephant-Dragon, must have had so much flesh on so much bone!’ Cavalier: ‘What, friend, is this hook in fashion? To hang one’s scabbard, it is truly convenient!’ Emphatic: ‘No wind can, O magisterial nose, give you a cold entirely, except the great monsoon!’ Dramatic: ‘It is the rhinoceros when she bleeds!’ Admiring: ‘For a perfumer, what a sign!’ Lyric: ‘Is it a conch? Are you a sea-spirit?’ Naïve: ‘This monument, when does one visit it?’ Respectful: ‘Suffer, Khun, that one salutes you, that is called having an estate on the street!’ Country-style: ‘Hey, look! Is that a nose? No! It’s a giant turnip or a dwarf melon!’ Military: ‘Point against a charging elephant!’ Practical: ‘Will you put it in a lottery? Assuredly, Khun, it will be the grand prize!’

Finally, parodying a tragic hero in a sob: ‘There it is, that nose which has destroyed the harmony of its mistress’ features! It reddens from it, the traitor!’

That, my dear, is what you would have said if you had a bit of letters and spirit. But of spirit, O lamentable being, you never had an atom, and of letters, you have only the six that form the word: DIMWIT! Had you the invention to serve these pleasantries before these galleries, you would not have articulated a quarter of the beginning of one, because I serve them to myself with enough verve, but I do not allow any other to serve them to me.”

The Governor placed a stiff hand on Sorasakdidecha’s shoulder. “Conclude this, Khun. The record of these proceedings is already irregular enough.”

“Such arrogant airs!” Sorasakdidecha choked. “Sommai, you take care of her. A commoner who… who doesn’t even have silks! And who goes out without ribbons, without finery!”

“I,” Moo Hring replied softly, “it is morally that I have my elegances. I do not dress as a fop, but I am more cared for if I am less coquettish. I would not go out with an affront not washed away, a conscience yellow with sleep, a crumpled honour, or scruples in mourning. I walk with nothing on me that does not shine, bearing the unblemished white lotus of my truth. It is my soul that I arch as if in a corset; and all covered with exploits attached in ribbons, twirling my spirit as if it were a moustache, I make truths ring like spurs.”

“But, Khun…” Sommai stammered while the two Luangs were departing.

“I have no silks? A fine affair! I had one left… from a very old pair. It was troublesome to me. I left it in the face of someone.”

“Rogue! Scoundrel! Ridiculous flat-foot!”

Moo Hring bowed as if he had just introduced himself. “Ah? And I, Moo Hring.”

“Jester!” Sommai shouted.

Moo Hring let out a cry as if seized by a cramp. “Ay!”

“What is she saying now?”

“It must move, for it is falling asleep,” Moo Hring said with a grimace of pain. “That’s what happens when you leave it unoccupied. Ay!”

“What do you have?”

“I have ants in my knife!”

“So be it!” Sommai cried, drawing his own blade, a decorative Dha curved saber.

“I shall give you a charming little slice,” Moo Hring said, pulling her heavy kitchen knife from its sheath.

“Poet!” he sneered.

The Duel in Verse

“Yes, Khun, poet! And so much so, that while fighting I shall—hop!—improvise a ballade for you.”

“A ballade?”

“I shall do both at once: create it and fight, and touch you, Khun, at the last line. Ballade of the duel that in the Lord Okya’s house, Moo Hring had with a scoundrel!”

The market buzzed with sudden electricity. A circle formed: nobles, soldiers, and merchants alike. Moo Hring closed her eyes for a second, choosing her rhymes. “There, I am ready.” She began her movements in time with her words.

“I twist my tuck with grace,
I untie my silk sash,
And I move with such a pace,
My blade makes a silver flash.
Is it a king or a brash
Lackey I strike in the face?
Quiet! The duel is a clash…
At the envoy, I prod!

Choose where I shall place
The point of this steel stash,
On the heart, or the lace
Of your robe with a dash?
The blades meet with a crash,
A circle, a leap, a trace…
I have seen your defense smash!
At the envoy, I poke!

I need a rhyme in ‘ace’…
You turn, you pale as ash?
I shall strike with a trace
Of honour, not a gash!
(Parry!) Your strike was rash!
I drive you through the space…
Be careful of my slash!
At the envoy, I jab!

Prince, look at the chase!
The end of the song is true!
I lunge, I finish the race…
There! I foin!”

With a sudden, precise movement, Moo Hring lunged. Sommai staggered back, his tunic pierced by the broad tip of the kitchen knife. Moo Hring bowed. “At the envoy, I pierce!”

The crowd erupted in acclamation. Flowers and sweets fell from the boxes. Sommai friends supported him and led him away, while Luang Borommanant placed a stiff hand on the young noble’s shoulder. “Concede this, Khun. We will have the last word.”

The crowd erupted in a final, long cry of “Ah!”

“Superb!” a soldier cried.

“Magnificent!” Bun shouted, his face red with excitement.

“Let the dancers return!” Det commanded, scooped up the bag of coins. “The show must go on!”